


Skin Deep

by monsterhugger



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Mild descriptions of violence, Scars, Self Harm, body image issues, probably a vent fic honestly, trans!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24701776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterhugger/pseuds/monsterhugger
Summary: Jon looks at himself, and at the scars that cover his body.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 48





	Skin Deep

Jon leaned over the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. He tried to drag his eyes down his body, taking in every inch of flesh. He tried not to be sick. This was a ritual Jon liked to engage in from time to time, a horrible exercise which he despised and yet still felt some obligation to perform.

It wasn’t his body that disgusted him, not really. He had never minded his small stature, or the way his ribs always showed a bit through his chest. He hardly even noticed the ribs that were no longer there. Martin had been dutifully feeding him cakes and casseroles and sugary tea since they’d arrived in the safe house, so he wasn’t quite as starved-looking as usual. Not to say he wasn’t still rail-thin, thin enough for Martin and probably anyone else who looked at him to be concerned, but Jon knew he was perfectly healthy. He’d always been slender and small, and it was fine. What actually bothered Jon was his skin. More specifically, his scars.

Jon hardly remembered a time before he had any scars. He had one on his foot from when he’d stepped on broken glass in the kitchen as a child, a tiny little line at the base of his heel that only he ever really got a look at. He had one on the back of his right hand from a bee sting, a little red dot that, like the scar on his foot, was hardly noticeable. They were the kind of scars a more extroverted child might have showed off to their friends, but Jon had never been one for showing off. Or for friends, really.

The first big ones came in the form of two long lines across his chest, apparently along the base of his pectoral muscles but given his lack of any real muscle mass their position seemed a bit arbitrary. Jon had always felt a subtle fondness for these scars, having reached up under his shirt to run a finger over them while lying in bed as they healed. He liked to think they didn’t marr the pleasant flatness of his chest, but it was harder to believe this while looking at them in the mirror. They were less ugly than what had been there before in that Jon could look at them without wanting to scream, but that was an incredibly low bar to clear. He certainly wouldn’t call his chest pretty, or handsome, or any other affectionate term. It was fine, he supposed. It was just fine.

Then the worms had come, and every inch of Jon became vile.

While Jon didn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been scarred, he definitely remembered what it was like to not be stared at in public. He didn’t blame people, of course. The patches of holes covered every inch of his skin-hands, face, neck, all places Jon couldn’t exactly get away with completely covering in public. There were also patches in places Jon didn’t like to think about, covering uncomfortable parts of him and making Jon even less inclined to acknowledge those parts. He still hated the ones on his face more, though. If he could cover them with clothes, he at least didn’t have to look at them. Or know others could look at them. Out of sight, out of mind, really. The ones on his face, his neck, his hands-those he could never fully cover.

He’d tried makeup for the ones on his face, using the minimal makeup skills he had from experimenting in college to cover up the patches of scars. It never seemed to look right. And even with the ones on his face covered, that still left his neck and hands, and trying to cover those seemed like too ridiculous and cumbersome of a routine to perform every time he wanted to go out in public. Instead, he’d limited his visits to anywhere that wasn’t his home or the Archives. He made quick trips to the supermarket and bought enough food for at least a month at a time, trying to convince himself people were simply judging his selection of cereals and not staring at the horrid marks on his flesh. Usually, Jon tried to look his best in public, wearing nice clothes and combing his hair carefully. It didn’t do anything to cover the scars, but he felt it made him look a bit less horrid.

There was a certain incident where he’d been in the supermarket, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a sweater vest, standing up straight as he pushed his cart and tried to ignore the stares. He’d stopped at the end of an aisle, standing in front of the display of spices, when he noticed a woman and, presumably, her child standing next to him. The woman was examining a container of cinnamon while her child pulled urgently at her shirt. Jon tried to avoid looking at them, figuring his presence would only make whatever situation this child was having just that much worse. And then he heard it.

“Mummy, what’s wrong with that man?”

Jon couldn’t help it. He glanced to the side, looking briefly down at the child. The child stared up at him with concern. No, it wasn’t concern. It was horror. Jon knew damn well it was horror. 

The child’s mother patted them on the shoulder.

“There’s nothing wrong with him, honey. Now don’t stare. It’s not polite.”

The child did not stop staring at Jon. In fact, Jon caught a wary glance from the child’s mother as he walked away. He didn’t blame them, really. He knew what he looked like. He knew what a horrific sight he must have been, especially for a child. He should’ve been used to it. But that hadn’t stopped him from curling up on his couch and crying the moment he got home.

And now, Jon looked at himself. He narrowed his eyes, studying the spots covering his skin like stars. He fixed his gaze on his cheek, on a particularly disfiguring patch of holes resting just below his right eye. Jon ran a finger over the spot, feeling the unsettling divots in his skin. He shivered. The worms had burrowed so deeply into him, down to the muscle, and he swore he could still feel something deep in his flesh whenever he touched those scars.

Jon avoided showing any shred of skin whenever he could. He wore long trousers and sleeves in the summer. He avoided being naked whenever possible, to the point that he’d gone through a phase in college where he wouldn’t shower for weeks. It wasn’t just worms, of course. The holes were worse than his previous scars, but Jon had been covering his arms whenever possible for quite a while.

At times, Jon liked to believe the patchwork of lines on his arms wasn’t so obvious. They were hardly visible when compared to the holes, but they were obvious enough Jon wouldn’t risk anyone seeing them. His newer scars were more horrible, more ugly and twisted and with terrifying stories behind them, but for years these had been the worst.

Everything about these scars was awful. They were small, each a thin line barely more than an inch long, but there were so many of them. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, wrapping around his arms and covering his thighs. They gave his skin an unsettling texture, little ridges that Jon couldn’t help but drag his fingers over every once in a while. From afar, they probably weren’t even noticeable, but up close they were a mess of pink and white flesh. Jon hadn’t worn short sleeves out of the house since primary school, and even in his own home he tended to keep them covered. Looking at the scars, feeling them, being reminded of them whenever he looked at himself, it was horrible.

The sheer amount of scars made the injuries seem more painful than they were. Really, they weren’t bad. It had taken Jon years to build up the expanse of scars that now covered him, a few at a time, a gentle sting and a few drops of blood and a rush of emotion every few days until he was covered. He didn’t regret trying it, not until years later. The blade had gone in smoothly, gliding across his skin easily and tracing a small, bleeding line into his arm. It hurt, but it didn’t feel bad, and it certainly wasn’t enough to deter Jon from continuing. The act itself was mesmerising, dragging the blade across his arm and watching the blood spring forth. The wounds had itched for days afterwards, and that was Jon’s least favourite part, but once they faded to pale pink scars he found himself missing them and took the blade out again. After a year or so of ripping up his arms, he decided he was running out of space and moved to his thighs. Eventually he realized his thighs also had limited space, and began making his cuts closer together, using every last inch of flesh until the area was more scar than skin.

There was something unique about these particular scars. All the other scars on his body were things that had happened to him, whether that thing was a broken glass or magical worms or a friend pulling a knife on him. These, on the other hand, were unavoidably his fault. And everyone who saw them knew. He’d seen the look from the doctor, as she’d removed the bandages from his arms to reveal the healed worm holes underneath. It was something bordering on pity, but also something dangerously close to disdain. Having someone know that about him was deeply disconcerting, upsetting in a way that someone seeing the holes in his face just wasn’t. The idea that Elias had likely known about them since the beginning, no matter how well Jon had covered them, was a very unsettling thought.

Jon hadn’t cut recently. He’d dug blades into his skin, pushed a knife into his flesh down to the muscle, only to have the wound seal itself up the moment he withdrew it. They still bled, and they still hurt, but somehow it just wasn’t the same now that it didn’t leave a mark. Being able to cut without leaving a scar seemed like it would be lovely, but it just felt like cheating. It wasn’t good enough, and he feared it never would be again.


End file.
